


Fickle as a gutted cloud

by crackinthecup



Series: A Cup of Chaos [12]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Denial, brief breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5873137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If stretched taut enough, frustration cannot but snap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fickle as a gutted cloud

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joannabelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/gifts).



Settling into the pillows was a queer sensation. Mairon felt as though the whole of Arda had frozen in a standstill, even down to the wooded stretches of Taur-im-Duinath; the silence shrilled in his ears and only his thoughts continued to spin, far removed from the lush softness of his bed, the heaviness of his limbs like flotsam weighed down and cast out to sea. 

There were still matters that necessitated his attention. Not without loss had Angband's gates ground shut against the victorious tide of the Noldor. Ramparts tottered in the keen winds slapping through Ered Engrin, stone pulverized by the bite of mangonels now tumbling down like scree. Weapons had been lost in the failure of their assail, scimitars and hammers, battle-axes and daggers, all trampled into the grass of Ard-galen. The foundries and forges of Angband were ever ablaze, the gear of war barely cooled when Orcs hefted their weapon of choice, marching down to the training pits upon their lieutenant's orders. 

Yet such strait-laced concerns were not the only thing on Mairon's mind. Slowly, inexorably, a tension and an ache had coiled in his _fána_ ; for few and far between had been the hours of respite and not even a whisper of his footsteps had wafted within his lord's vicinity. He had begun to notice the over-eager jolt between his hipbones as he pressed himself into his workbench, stretching across the slab of stone for his hammer; the sparks flurrying low in his belly as hurriedly he would bathe himself, foam-slickened fingers gliding ever lower. With a sigh, a spike of vexation, he slipped his hand beneath the waistband of his trousers, knowing that otherwise simmering need would steal his slumber from him. 

With loosened fist he coaxed himself into hardness. It would be quick, clinical: a quiver of pleasure, white streaks rapidly wiped away with a square of cloth; his physical form would be sated and then, finally, he might sleep, sufficient rest to fuel him through the coming days. He settled into a familiar rhythm, fast, sure, all thoughts of teasing batted aside. His thighs were quaking, an ache was needling into his wrist; deftly he switched hands, swallowing his gasp as his thumb scraped over his swollen tip, yet sensation did not boil over into climax: it hovered at a maddening plateau and he whined in frustration, thrusting up into his own palm, to no avail. 

Desperately he conjured images in his mind, memories of charred fingers twisting inside him, grazing just the right spot; shamelessly he grunted, heedless of just how loudly his strained, panting breaths crashed into the air, and despite the protests of his wrist, he quickened his pace. Yet the plateau would not shatter; near aglow with sweat, he let his arm topple loose and aching at his side, and peevishly willed the drum of arousal into non-existence. 

X X 

Days had whirled past, tossing, sea-sick stretches of fitful sleep and the hot pulse of thwarted need. His biceps throbbed from how viciously he had been hammering the sheets of metal in his forge, a tidy silvered pile waiting to be crafted into a suit of armor: his latest design. But there were other moments too, moments he did not care to show to the world: lulls between hammer-strikes, when the warm blast of the furnace would shiver over the nape of his neck, when meticulously, methodically he would place his tools upon the workbench and burrow beneath apron and breeches to grasp at stirring flesh; fruitlessly, as he had come to expect, as he had come to dread. 

It was only the steel of his will that bound his attention to the discussion in the war room. Crucial matters: bolder, sturdier fortifications, doubling the range of their crossbows, _what say you to increasing the output of armament, lieutenant?_ A fair decision, he graciously deemed it, startled out of clenching his jaw by his master's voice. He raked flyaway strands of hair off his forehead, wriggling them back into his braid a little too vigorously; he had been paying especial attention to his attire, his mien, even more so than usual. 

''Are you quite well?'' Gothmog rumbled upon his left, in a murmur as the Balrog deemed it, but nonetheless from the head of the table Melkor turned a frown to the pair; Mairon waved away their concerns, firmly pressing quill to parchment to make a note of the Orc captain's estimation of required weaponry. 

Melkor did not conceal the glance lingering upon his lieutenant; neither did he conceal the ghost of a smirk fogging over his lips. His fingers drummed an indolent beat upon the table, once, twice, thrice: 

''The meeting shall be adjourned,'' he declared at large, stirring not a breath of disapproval. Without delay chairs scraped back, voices drifting down the corridor in idle conversation, and vainly Mairon tried to catch his master's eye, bootlessly he tried to protest: he would not have the meeting ended on his account—his ailment was nothing that idleness would alleviate. 

But speech dissipated in his throat when he sensed something that was not quite concern radiating from the Vala, something he did not entirely grasp and was not sure he wanted to grasp. They were alone, the door had closed behind the last of the Orcs, and Melkor was watching him. 

''What seems to be the issue, Mairon?'' he inquired gravely, and the Maia swallowed, still taken aback. Briefly he considered telling his master; for the planes of the body, even down to the soft muddle of viscera, were firmly among the Vala's interests, and a small-voiced part of him argued that he might know what to do. But no, it would not do: too intimately he was familiar with Melkor's fancies and he had no wish to contemplate to what effect such knowledge might be employed; it was better if his master did not know. 

''Thank you for your concern, my lord, but it is nothing, truly,'' he replied evenly, pushing himself back from the table, leafing through the stack of parchment scrolls he had accrued during the meeting. ''Now, if you will excuse me, these notes need to be reviewed.'' 

But Melkor had risen too. Blackened fingers snaked around his wrist, and suddenly he was far, far too close to his master. Leaves of parchment wheeled over the table, spun down to the floor, as Mairon found himself maneuvered: he was drawn into the Vala's bulk as Melkor leaned further back into the table. The Maia found his free hand settling at his master's waist, found his gaze levered upward as Melkor's fingers lodged beneath his chin. The lurch of desire in his loins was accompanied by a blush spilling over his cheeks, pink brightening to vermilion with the blistering realization of just how firmly his erection must be pressed against the Vala's thigh. 

''My, my ...'' Melkor purred, slipping a knee between the Maia's legs. ''I must profess myself surprised, unless perhaps you have taken an unnatural liking to dry military argumentation?'' There was a jocular lightness to the arch of his master's eyebrow, a gleeful tilt to his lip, and even though the extent of the Vala's knowledge eluded him, Mairon knew quite suddenly that he was well aware of the taut frustration of the past days. 

The Maia's reply came after an arid, airless moment of bodies pressed too tightly together: nothing but a kiss smashed against his lord's lips, open-mouthed and ravening. He tugged his wrist free of the Vala's clutch to drag his fingers over his cheek, soldering his palm to the base of his skull. For seconds that reeled as though splashed with wine Melkor allowed it, tongue laving against his lieutenant's, hands skimming down to his lower back and pressing him so close, grinding his thigh so vigorously against his cock, that Mairon mewled into the kiss. 

There was too much fabric between them. Mairon slid nimble fingers to the clasps upon the Vala's robes, earnestly, boldly, and cared not for the growl Melkor loosed against his lips; not until charred fingers curled around his throat, palm compressing his trachea. He tottered a half-step backward, compelled to let his hands scrape away from his master. Melkor's thumb wandered, scratching at his mouth, plying his lips apart; and as he continued to tease and toy, a half-pained, keening sound wrenched from Mairon's throat, stranded there as he was without permission to touch. 

Melkor's thigh between his legs crushed up against his cock, firm almost to the point of discomfort; Mairon near choked on a gasp, and before dissent could coalesce within him, his hips twitched into that pressure. At that the Vala chuckled, a sound bubbling low and dark, and he breathed his question through the angles of a smirk, the teasing glimmer of teeth: ''What is it you would request?'' 

Mairon swallowed, acutely aware of the palm resting feather-light and false against his throat. He shifted with an impatient little motion, a spasm between the eyebrows. ''I—'' his tongue stumbled, the words would not assemble themselves. ''Please, my lord, just—'' He made to insinuate himself closer, to shove his aching, writhing need into the Vala's mouth and yank the teasing to an end. But Melkor's fingers tightened, and he winced with a hitch in his breath, air rasping down his throat. 

''The ways to redress impudence are manifold,'' Melkor mused, nails slicing livid furrows down the side of his lieutenant's neck. Mairon reached for his forearm, locking both hands close to his wrist; he clung to that sense of safety, for surely, if lack of air became too dire, if his master felt him tugging his hand away—surely he would relent; he had to believe as much. ''I could have you sprawled upon this table, touching yourself for hours uncounted, unable to reach completion. Yes, little Maia,'' Melkor continued with relish as an upward jostle of his hand choked Mairon's indignant sputter into silence, ''it was my doing. Arcane are the reaches of power, but once plumbed deep, oh, what wondrous uses can ensue.'' 

Mairon was hardly listening; blood howled in his ears, a tingle had crept into his lips, and even so, despite the precariousness of the position—one wrong move, one wrong word, Melkor holding the pressure upon his trachea seconds too long—arousal swooped within him and dizzied judgment. His thumb worried at the inner softness of Melkor's wrist, mapping out the network of veins there; and then his touch solidified, and he wrenched his master's hand away from his throat. He paid no heed to consequences as he lunged forward, seeking the Vala's lips and instead slicing himself open upon the sharpness of teeth. For one reckless, swerving moment the conviction that he did not care blazed through him, while in the back of his mind the expectation of a slap, the crunch of vertebrae, bloomed like a blood-stain. 

It was not the sting of a slap that greeted him; instead dull, thudding pain percussed over his back as Melkor spun him round, crushing him to the wooden tabletop. With a hand to the sternum, cupped over his heartbeat, the Vala held him in place. His free hand sealed around Mairon's right wrist, and with the hummingbird-flutter of his pulse amplified at the base of his throat, the Maia did not struggle as Melkor drew his arm above his head, he offered no resistance as his left arm followed suit. 

''Will you be still for me?'' There were not many commands Mairon would not have agreed to if it meant fewer layers of clothing, hands tracing fevered skin. At his nod Melkor smiled, half-praise and half-promise, darkness and honey and ash; yet he seemed firmly intent on prolonging each slide of fabric across flesh, mindful of not touching newly exposed skin, until Mairon could not quite restrain the eager sway of his hips as Melkor peeled off his breeches. 

But no punishment cracked across his skin; Melkor did not touch him at all. The Vala turned his attention to an inner pocket of his robes, fishing out the vial of oil he always carried with him. All too readily Mairon planted his feet flat upon the table, letting his knees part loose and splayed for Melkor to stand between them. Almost his hips arched off the table as the Vala dipped slick fingers down to his entrance, circling lightly but not yet breaching him. His master's free hand trailed down the inside of his thigh, pausing here and there to pinch, or claw tiny patches of skin into redness. 

And when Melkor's fingers nudged partway inside him, when his hand glided upward to curl around the base of his cock, Mairon moaned, a wanton, throbbing sound shivering out of his throat. His lips were slack, parted, all thought of restraining the tiny mewls dipping into the air abandoned. His hips snapped forward until his master's fingers were lodged knuckle-deep inside him, and Melkor obliged: he set a slow, swirling rhythm, he ran his fingers across the veins cresting over his length. Time had been dismantled: there was only the fierce joy of Melkor's touch upon him, only the upward press of his hips to the pace of the Vala's hand. He whimpered with the wonder of climax when pleasure tentatively tightened in his belly, when Melkor added a third finger and prodded the stretch into something glorious. 

Yet of a sudden his master stopped: withdrawing, pulling away; his hands merely rested against Mairon's thighs, keeping his legs spread even as he thrust up into comfortless air. The Maia's head thrashed to the side in a dizzying slap of hair as frustration clawed raw and ragged out of his throat. He had been on the cusp of his peak, he had almost been engulfed in its glow; and even though he knew all too well to what useless, grating end it would lead, he plunged a hand downward to wrap about his own length. 

But ashen fingers were there, snatching his hand away. Both wrists were caught as in a vice within Melkor's fingers, slammed down upon either side of the Maia's head, ground into the tabletop. 

''Please—'' Mairon whined, he writhed, only half-aware the plea had wriggled from him. 

''Nay,'' Melkor husked, willfully stooping to harry a nipple with his teeth until the Maia cried out, tried to twist away. ''A command should never be thrown aside to suit your own whims and fancies. Do you not deserve to be left here then, to take your pleasure with whomever might pass by?'' 

''No, please, I'm sorry, _I'm sorry_ ,'' Mairon rushed, hardly registering the words chipping from him, just that instinct crystallized throughout years of service had taught him they were what his master wanted to hear. 

''Will you behave then?'' Melkor pressed, and the whisper of his robes against aching flesh was so insufficient, so torturous, that Mairon nodded. 

Fingers bit into his waist, and a moment of spiraling torsion saw him flung face-down upon the table. While the impact still drummed through him, splitting his head into a mirror maze, Melkor tangled a hand into his hair and shook free the coiled strip of leather securing the end of his braid. His wrists were seized from beneath him, pinned at the small of his back: the Vala expertly looped the curl of leather round them. 

''I am not convinced,'' he stated, but Mairon did not care, not for his words or for the reprimand blistering behind them; not when fabric fluttered behind him, the tell-tale clink of a belt loud in his ears. His head was dragged back by the roots, and gladly he took that pain, giddily he canted his hips back into his master when the tip of his well-oiled length prodded against his entrance. And then he was screaming, ripping his throat raw with the abandon of it, as without preamble Melkor wrenched into him to the hilt. The fullness was exquisite, the burn of the stretch enough to make him lose himself; but time wore on, and it became devastatingly clear that Melkor was deliberately avoiding the one spot he wanted touched. 

''My lord—'' he eked out, but whatever else he had hoped to say emerged as a strangled squeak as Melkor tightened the hand in his hair, forcing his back into a knotted arch. He scraped pleas off his tongue, wheezing and frothing, because he did not know what else to do. And he could have sobbed in relief, a wet, gusting thank-you, as Melkor all but threw his head back down and repositioned himself, deepening the angle, grasping him by the hips. One of his hands meandered down, firm around the base of his shaft, smearing through the fluid beaded at his slit. 

He closed his eyes with the rock of his master's hips, the brightness of sensation burbling so perfectly within him. His climax crept up on him, quite unexpected: he had not a chance to prevent it, not when Melkor kept grinding into him, kept pounding a twisting rhythm up his length. His orgasm tasted of imploding constellations, and in its tumult he was shredded: he came with a tiny, choked-off sound, lips dragging open across the table, trembling even as ardor began to cool. He could not tell whether it was seconds or minutes until Melkor tipped into his own peak: it was silent, a mere grunt, nails bloody down his lieutenant's side; and then it was over, quite, quite done, but the haze of pleasure still cocooned him, weariness and relief as mellowing as mulled wine; he felt he would be happy if he never had to move again. 

Melkor did not seem disinclined to the idea; he made no effort to ease out, savoring the warmth of him, lazily plucking off the strip of leather binding his wrists. Mairon curled his arms beneath his torso, gingerly rubbing away the thin crimson lines splotched over his skin. He realized he must have voiced the thought, a mumble must have oozed from him about staying a little while longer, for Melkor was responding, agreeing; gently, idly, he set about untangling the Maia's mussed hair, and Mairon could just about manage a groan at the hand caressing down his side, not quite skirting the craggy scratch-marks there. 


End file.
